


the north remembers

by Daniela_is_not_amused



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark Feels, Arya-centric, Badass Arya, Battle of Winterfell, Found Family, House Stark, Mentioned daenerys, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Sad with a Happy Ending, So beware, Spoilers, for 8x03, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 18:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18643657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daniela_is_not_amused/pseuds/Daniela_is_not_amused
Summary: Arya hated her father sometimes. He was a hero, he was King of the North, he was their savior, and he was dead.--Arya's journey as told by her feelings towards her father, Ned Stark.





	the north remembers

Arya hated her father sometimes. He was a hero, he was King of the North, he was their savior, and he was dead. He had died for the North, protecting her and her mother and her siblings. Protecting the North and House Stark’s honour.

But when she was eight and missing her dad, she didn’t know that. All she knew was that he chose his morals and his duty, not her. And she hated him for it, just a little. She hated waking up at night, on the cold hard floor, in the middle of nowhere, far away from her family and her home. She hated not being able to mourn him publicly and she hated the way Gendry and, later on, the Hound looked at her. She hated Jaqen’s knowing glances when she woke up from another wolf dream and she hated the waif for using her father’s name against her.

When she found her way back to Winterfell, she hated Sansa’s weak excuses when she knew she was disappearing to mourn in private. She hated Bran’s empty eyes and Jon’s sad smiles whenever she imitated her father.

She hated that the battlefield had more time with her father than she ever would.

(She hated the way she was forgetting what he smelled like, what his beard felt like when he kissed her cheeks, the exact way he laughed. Everything was blurrier by the day and all she had left were Winterfell’s cold walls and a statue in the crypts that didn’t look anything like him.)

She loved her father more than she hated him, of course. She loved her brown hair and grey eyes, an echo of his own. She loved all the knowledge he had passed onto her, in soft whispers. She loved the fact that he went against tradition and her mother’s own wishes by letting her keep needle and learn how to use it. She loved his courage and loyalty to their family. She loved him .

Arya grew up with a ghost on her shoulder, whispering “the North remembers” in her ear every night before falling asleep, reminding her of soft summer snows and the song of two swords battling each other and a love so bright it burned. She lived with the unending strength of wolf blood inside her veins, a gift he had passed onto her. She found her way back home and spent the rest of her days with her family, not by blood but family nonetheless, and, together, they kept the North standing safe and proud against their enemies.

She healed, memories of her father becoming less like a sword and more like a balm. He wasn’t really gone, after all. He was in her sister’s look of reluctant amusement, the curve of Bran’s shy smiles and Jon’s eyes; in the broken tower and the dinning hall and the Godswood. He was there, even when she raged and screamed at him for leaving her, for leaving the North at all, even on days when the blood in her hands was out to drown her and she couldn’t breathe.

His voice, “the North remembers”, was her lifeline. Her head would play it on repeat, his voice strong and warm and alive until needle stopped shaking in her hand and she could think once again.

She had never understood why he picked the North over her, not until she fought against the Night King for the first time, standing next to the Hound and Gendry, her father’s old vest, who had been adapted to fit her, around her chest and gleaming. Not until she saved her brother from being killed, stopped Death; not until she looked around her and, for the first time since her father had died, was afraid that she might not make it to see the sunrise.

She fought, using every inch of her skills and training to her advantage. It was a cutthroat dance, a bloody performance, one she couldn’t afford to lose. It was only when Arya flew across the dark sky and stabbed the Night King with her father’s voice in her ear that she understood. She wasn’t picking the North over her family; she was picking her family over herself.

“The North remembers”, she whispered, over and over again, as he carried Bran back to the castle and helped moving the bodies and look after the injured.

“The North remembers”, she shouted in her mind as she watched the people of Winterfell cheer for the Targaryen Queen, despite the fact that she didn’t have any right to the iron throne, nor to the North.

“The North remembers”, she promised Gendry as they fell asleep, side by side, holding each other after the longest night of their lives. Those words - her father - had never failed her, not a single time so she would continue to follow them wherever they led her.

Arya missed her father every day, but not in a way that wore her down. She missed him fondly, loved him always, hated him sometimes.

She just hoped that wherever her father was, he was as proud of her as she was of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.


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